Try a Kabob!

There were a couple of other marines in Gunny’s unit who were scheduled to transfer out to their intended destination earlier than the rest.  One was named Blosser.  He too, was another young, lean marine.  As he explained it, his body type was relatively new to him.  Apparently, he was a chubby kid.  After losing much weight (compliments of Marine Corps boot camp), he vowed to keep the weight off.  He was determined to keep this promise to himself by regularly visiting the gym and watching what he ate.  I’m sure he saw me as the devil whenever I offered him any one of a variety of sweets from my care packages.  Whenever I mentioned that he should start eating more to improve his skinny physique, he assured me that, in fact, he ate a lot – he just stayed away from junk foods, and tried to eat lots of veggies.  He might be in the right place for eating healthy.  

I’ve noticed that fruits and veggies do seem to thrive I this country.  Our rides through the bazaars are complete with shops, one after another, each displaying their colorful displays of the seasonal harvest.  While I’m not sure if they’re imported from neighboring countries, I imagine the local soil around Kabul is highly fertile.  The type of fertilizer however, is suspect. 

A delivery of cauliflower headed to one of the bazaars

In January of 2010 a journalist in Kabul wrote about its air quality.  He reported that in addition to the uncontrolled emissions of vehicles, gas-powered generators, and the burning of trash for heat, there were no sewer systems; so the human waste that’s simply dumped outside of many peoples’ homes, dries and gets carried by the winds.  Since there’s (literally) so much crap in the air, I guess whatever doesn’t get stuck to our nose hairs, sucked into our lungs, or rubbed into our eyes, eventually makes its way into the soil.  While I don’t know what’s in the fruits and veggies, they sure look good! 

While I’m on the subject of food, I may as well describe the meat markets! Along the roads, butchers display their products in front of their shops.  The skinned carcasses hang from hooks in the open air, unrefrigerated.  Every now and then, also lying on the ground in the vicinity of the once breathing cow would be its un-skinned head, for presentation.  Often neatly placed next to the head were the feet.  Presumably, this is to show that yes, the meat that one sees hanging before them, did indeed, come from this cow.  What one can tell from a head and feet, I don’t know. 

Some mental assembly required...

One day around lunchtime, Gunny was in the mood for a local meal.  He decided to buy lunch for anyone that was hungry.  He gave money to one of LA’s, who traveled to one of the shops outside of the compound, and shortly returned with some kabobs.  Later on, as we were preparing to leave, Gunny asked me if I had eaten any of the kabobs.  After I told him I hadn’t, he was apologetic (after learning that his Marines and the LA’s had eaten most of them), and assured me that he would buy more next time. 

When it was time to leave, Naeem, one of the LA’s, hitched a ride with us.  Since he was busy translating a class, he missed lunch.  Once in the truck, he quickly tore into the food that someone had saved for him.  As he ripped open the wrappings, the smell of the kabobs filled the cab.   He graciously offered to share his meal with me and Greg.  While I too, was famished, I didn’t want to take food from the poor guy, so I declined.  Greg did likewise.  Looking in the rear view mirror, I could see Naeem, stuffing the meat and some bread into his mouth.  As he did so, his cheeks grew to what looked like twice their size.  As I watch him continue to pack the food into his mouth, I was reminded of the Nathan’s Hot Dog eating contest in Coney Island.  I was hopeful that Greg wouldn’t have to jump into the back to perform the Heimlich maneuver on him.  Obviously, he was hungry, so I was glad I didn’t take any of his meal. 

Naeem, aka, Ricky Martin (see it)? We often dropped him off on our return trips from the compound.

The following morning, I woke before the alarm went off.  As had become the routine, I fired up my laptop to get the latest update on the status of the routes we would take to the training compound.  While it was warming up, I took the short walk to the storage trailer that was converted for bathroom use.  As I entered the latrine trailer, I heard the loud sound of someone heaving in the toilet.  The noises that came from the stall, emanated from way down, deep in his belly.  It was a deep, rich, retching that almost sounded alien.  The poor soul seemed to continue expelling his stomach contents continuously, pausing only to take a few short breaths, and then started all over again.  I walked through the door that separated the sinks from the toilets and urinals to brush my teeth.  A few wash basins to my right, a French soldier was washing up.  As the puking continued, we briefly looked at each other and smiled (no motherly instincts here).  He said something in heavily accented French to the effect of, “He shouldn’t be drinking the local water.”  I was tempted to say that the fellow’s condition was probably due some bad French wine that was smuggled in; but not wanting to be the cause of some international incident at Camp Phoenix, I took the high road and just nodded.  As I left the building the guttural gurgling sounds continued, but faded as I got further and further away.

Within a few minutes of returning to the B-hut, I learned that all of the routes had “gone black”.  This condition meant that the threat status was particularly high, and that no movement was allowed outside the camp.  The Marines and our group met in front of the hut to discuss the threat.  While we were talking, I noticed Blosser, with one of his hands to his stomach, looking particularly pale. 

“Was that you in the head this morning?” I asked.

“You heard me puking?”

“Who didn’t,” I said, “Did you have one of those kabobs, yesterday?”

 “Yeah, it hit me about 4 in the morning, and I’ve been sick ever since.” 

With that, he quickly turned and headed for the latrines for another session with the bowl.

…Note to self: Don’t eat anything at the training compound!

Grunts

We’re starting to forge a pretty good relationship with the new marines.  Gunny, their supervisor, is a good example of a competent, well-respected leader.  He gives overall direction to his men, then stands back to let them handle their responsibilities as best they can.  He’s always there to answer their questions, and makes his expectations clearly. They, likewise, seem to have no reservations about going to him for clarification or support in any matter.  They clearly respect him. 

Assisting Gunny is Sgt. Clev (short for Clevenger).  He’s a serious, quiet marine who knows his way around the weapons systems.  He helps Gunny by ensuring that all runs smoothly. At first I thought he was somewhat distant, but I later found that the silence I mistook for detachment was actually his high level of focus and concentration. 

Sgt. Clev with a new friend

Travelling with the marine team is Doc.  Doc’s a navy corpsman attached to the unit as their medic.  He’s a thin, young-looking 19 yr. old from West Virginia.  Befitting his specialty as a medic, Doc’s a bit more humanistic in his outlook, possessing more of an interest in learning about Afghan culture than his (as he describes them) “grunt” counterparts.  He’s quite inquisitive and keeps his eyes open to his many new experiences in the field.

Doc, keeping a watchful eye over all of us

Then there’s Corporal “H” (for Hollingsworth), from Ohio.  He’s a ball of energy that just can’t sit still. He was always moving about the training site exploring, climbing, crawling, and peeking into areas “just to see what’s there.” The pace he kept made me tire just watching him. 

A rare photo - Corporal H sitting still long enough to take a picture

Corporal H off again -  This time climbing down into an old sewage pit.  Months later, a peek from the top revealed swarming rats.

Unlike the previous marines who lived at Camp Eggers (which was about a 7 mile drive from us), this group lived at Camp Phoenix in the B-hut right next door to us.  In fact, since they didn’t have transportation, they travelled with us to and from the training site.  The close living arrangements assisted us in getting to know each other.

One evening a few days after our teams had met, Corporal H came to our B-hut to discuss training for the following day.  As soon as he opened the door to the darkened hut, there was a long pause. Peering into the darkness, he asked in a voice that was audible, but soft enough not to awaken anyone that was asleep, “Is anybody up?”  Someone from down the hall half muttered, “Yeah, I’m up.”  As Corporal H made his way down the hallway he said aloud, “It’s only 9 o’clock!  This is like a senior citizens home!”  His remark drew a few chuckles from those who hadn’t yet fallen asleep.  Being the oldest of our group (by only a couple of months), I chided in, “Hey, respect your elders.” He chuckled back.

Thanks, But I’ll Pass on Breakfast

After deciding that three full meals a day were a bit too much, I began skipping breakfast.  I chose to avoid the morning meal at the DFAC, since without fail, I always ended up eating more than I should.  Instead, my breakfast consisted of a Pop Tart or two with my morning tea (similar to what I used to eat at my desk at the college). 

There was another motivation for cutting down on breakfast.  A few days after I sprained my foot as a result of closing the truck door on it, I felt the gout starting to creep into my ankle.  Always with pills on hand, I began taking my gout medication in hopes of controlling the swelling.  Since the medication gives me the runs, I didn’t want to have to poop in the facilities at the compound.  Believe me, in comparison to the toilets here, the Porta-Johns at home look like executive washrooms.  Not only was it a losing battle against the flies, but the stench made me gag.  In addition, here, the customary method of doing number two is by squatting – I’m talking full squat, without the benefit of a traditional toilet bowl to sit on - that is, nothing to sit on.  What passes for the toilet, is a porcelain fixture with a hole, with two places to put one’s feet on either side.  And, you just squat to do your business.  Needless to say, between the flies buzzing, my inability to hold my breath long enough, and my fear of not being able to balance myself in such a stooped position, I soon figured that traveling to the compound on an empty stomach was a wise choice.

One of the compound's toilets - a good reason to skip breakfast!

 

Driver's Ed

Monday, September 26, 2011

 I finally got to drive in Kabul traffic.  It felt good to get behind the wheel again, even if it meant maneuvering the truck among what seemed to be a group of maniacal drivers who seemed clueless as to the rules of the road. Since coming to Afghanistan, I had been the “shooter” in the right front seat of the vehicle.  As such, my duties were to sit somewhat askew, looking out the right side of the truck, constantly scanning the surroundings, looking for anything suspicious.  Acting as another set of eyes for the driver, I would call out vehicles that were passing on the right, cars parked in the roadway, pedestrians, bicycles, donkey carts, push carts, beggars, and anything else that could pose a traffic hazard.

It’s definitely a control thing, but since driving in a convoy requires one to follow the vehicle ahead very closely, I felt more at ease determining just how close or far away we should be from the bumper in front of us.  In these conditions, some were definitely better suited for driving than others.  In the short time I’d been here, I had plenty of opportunity to witness “cowboy driving” among other contractors.  While it’s true that in order to maintain the integrity of the convoy one must drive somewhat aggressively so as not to let another car in between the convoy’s vehicles, there’s a limit to how aggressive one should be.  Having seen so many examples of poor self-control exhibited through bad driving, is prompting me to consider suggesting that the company administer a practical driving test as part of the psychological assessment.

Finally! Behind the wheel again!

When we arrived at the compound, I found that I would be assisting “Butch” from Arkansas, in teaching vehicle operations. The patrol vehicle of the Afghanistan National Police is the Ford Ranger.  With my apologies to Jim Dunne, a long-time friend who has a career with GM, the Ranger is a nice, peppy little pick-up.  

 Me and the Ranger, to which I've taken a liking.

After dividing our assigned students into smaller groups, Butch and I each began our respective instructions with a familiarization of the truck and explained the importance of vehicle maintenance – instrument panel acquaintance, fluids check, correct tire pressure, etc.  While at first I didn’t think this would engender much interest, the students seemed curious to learn about all the “gadgets”.  I checked often with Hashimi for his assessment of how the instruction was going.  From my observations of their non-verbal gestures, I seemed to be keeping their attention but I was glad to get his “thumbs up” none the less.  I was thankful for his appraisal of how the overall teaching was progressing.

While the training seemed to be going well, he cautioned me from becoming too confident in the abilities of some of the students.  He warned me that many of those in the group came from very primitive backgrounds; and that other than donkey carts, many had never driven before.  To emphasize his point, he told me of how he had to show someone the proper way of entering the trucks.  Apparently, after I directed a group to enter one of the trucks, Hashimi had to show one of the students how to use the door handle to open the door.  Hashimi did this after he stopped the student from climbing through the open window in his attempt to get inside the truck. 

Clearly, there were some in the group that were more acquainted with vehicles than others.  Bearing in mind that ultimately, we were to mentor Afghans to lead other Afghans, after providing some initial instruction, I handed over the teaching reins to a student who seemed to know his way around the vehicle.  Evidently, my first choice of “instructor” was a good one.  He eagerly took to his task, and in no time, had the students peering over the shoulders of others as they followed his instruction. Instead of Hashimi interpreting my English to the recruits’ Dari (one of the languages spoken primarily in Kabul); he interpreted their Dari into English so I could follow along and ensure that the lesson was being properly presented.

Introducing myself to the first group of students.

Following the “show-and-tell” phase of vehicle operations, we’d soon move behind the wheel.  Since it was difficult to cram all the students into one truck to introduce them to the clutch, brake, and gas, I did the best I could with stones that were readily available.  Once again, using one of the Afghans who knew how to drive a stick shift, most seemed to grasp the idea – or so I thought….  

Doing the best we could with what we had - can you spot the clutch, brake, and gas?

  

A Stroll Around the Compound

In the days following the departure of the Afghan kandak (battalion) and the corresponding marines, we began to prepare for the incoming group.  We were introduced to our new military counterparts with whom we would be instructing.  The new marine team was led by a gunnery sergeant, “Gunny”.  He was from Georgia, and a die-hard Bulldogs fan.  In comparison to the previous marine lieutenant’s personality, Gunny’s was more easy-going, seemed less concerned with his rank; but definitely in charge.  Having witnessed the relationship between the previous commanding officer and his men, I was curious as to this new unit’s group dynamics.  Upon the completion of the training mission, they would ship out to the country’s more violent southern region.

Another view of the compound. Tents in the foreground serve as student housing.

As we acquainted the new marines with the compound, I encountered a nice surprise which took me totally off-guard.  As we made our way along one of the interior roads, I noticed a small boy accompanying (someone whom I assumed to be his father) around the site.  The elder’s uniform was that of some type of technician or laborer.  The child, who couldn’t have been more than 3, bore the look of innocence.  When I motioned to the father in a request to take his son’s picture, he was very obliging.  However before he would allow me to do so, he wanted to ensure that his son was presentable.  As the dad wiped the remnants of the morning meal and dusty grime off his pliable face, first in one direction and then the next; the son’s grimaces made me smile.  It reminded me of any number of times that I had done the same to my own young sons many years ago.   After posing for pictures, the little guy wasn’t shy about taking whatever candy the team collected among us.  He seemed happy to be getting it.  

Dad's little helper

Son and proud Dad

There were other surprises as well.  As we became more accustomed to traversing the compound, we began to get more attuned to the finer details of the site.  On one stroll across the grounds, two of my co-workers, Greg (from Oregon) and Brooks (from North Carolina) stopped abruptly to do a “double take”.  Upon closer inspection, Brooks uttered, “Yup. I thought so!”  They had come upon a marijuana plant in all its glory, taking in the rich Kabul sun.  After learning that growing marijuana isn’t illegal in Afghanistan, I slowly began to recover from the shock of weed growing on a police training site.  What a country! 

Greg and Brooks (in the foreground) - "Yup, I thought so."

In order to save some money on cab fare, one of the LA’s, Saboor, would often ask to ride in our truck for part of our return trip to Camp Phoenix.  As company employees, LAs were permitted to travel with us.  This presented me with the opportunity to ask whatever questions I could conjure up.  I learned that during the time of Taliban rule, most of the LAs had immigrated to Pakistan or other counties with their families.  This left most of the younger interpreters (or “terps”) with only vague memories of the strict rule imposed by the Taliban regime. 

Me and Saboor

When I asked what the men standing on the roadside were selling, he told me that they were selling phone cards – not lottery tickets, which I had previously thought.  There is no lottery in Afghanistan!  That seems to be one of the ironies here – amidst the poverty and blight, there is no shortage of cell phones.  I suppose their presence represents both a blessing and a curse.  On the one hand, it’s good to see that technology is available to help people communicate; but on the other, I constantly find myself asking. “Could the guy on the phone be calling in our position and route of travel; or perhaps getting ready to detonate an IED?” Certain things about this mission are going to make the little hair I have left, gray a bit faster.  

Out With the Old, In With the New

For the next few days, we rolled to the training facility by way of Camp Eggers.  We did so in order to convoy with the Marines with which we worked.  Since they were required (as were we) to travel with a minimum of two vehicles, they would become part of our convoy to the training compound.  Located pretty much in the center of the city, Camp Eggers is situated within a cluster of military and government buildings.  Its neighbors are the Presidential Palace; ISAF (International Security Assistance Force) Headquarters; a number of embassies (including the American Embassy); and a host of other high profile government departments.  When not a main target itself, its location made it subject to the collateral damage of numerous insurgent attacks on the other objectives.

Armed soldiers and policemen are a common sight on the roadways. 

While we shared the responsibility for training the Afghans, the military was considered our customer.  So whatever the commanding officer wanted us to teach, we taught.  We were aligned with a small, 3-4 person Marine Corps unit.  Their primary responsibility was instruction of the weapons systems, such as the AK47, RPG (rocket propelled grenade), and machine guns.  The contractors were tasked with teaching the other overall police-related duties.

The Afghan group (or “kandak”) that our team was currently training would soon be leaving to go elsewhere in the country in furtherance of the police mission; and the marines would be accompanying them. Being that it was late in their training cycle, there was only one culmination exercise left to complete at the compound.  During this practical exercise, the entire installation would be used for the drill. 

The Marines were led by a relatively young lieutenant, whose respect had not yet been earned from his men.  During the sporadic contact I had with the younger marines, I was often privy to their complaints.  As a new-comer to the group, I was surprised at how vocal they were in my presence, about his poor leadership skills. 

During a break, 2 marines (in the tanner uniforms) join Afghan officers in knocking around a volleyball.

A marine speaks with Hashimi while another looks on from a Humvee.

  

We were given a briefing by a young marine chosen by the lieutenant.  He began by mapping out the day’s events on a white board, “The f***ing Lt. will start them off here.  Then they’ll come around this f***ing corner right here.  That’s when they’ll be f***ing engaged from this flank. Then depending on what the f*** they do here, we’ll either f***ing fire at them from this corner; or set off the f***ing charge over here.”  Wow!  In over 25 years with the state police, I never heard anyone give a briefing with any profanity, let alone one that included at least one expletive in every sentence!  Once the briefing was over, Greg, a classmate from T1G, and who, like me, had recently been assigned to Camp Phoenix, turned to me and asked, “Have you ever heard a briefing like that before?!?!?”  We both just shook our heads and laughed.

Afghan police prepare for the final training exercise

 As others checked and double checked to ensure that the officers-in-training were carrying empty weapons, we went about helping the “actors” prepare for their respective roles. Gerry, the big fellow (with whom I visited the mountain top), was playing an insurgent who would begin shooting blanks from his M-4 rifle once one of the training IED’s went off.  His only costume was a scarf worn around his head and neck.  Looking at him made me snicker.  This large, corn-fed, blonde-haired, blue-eyed guy from Missouri with a scarf draped over his head, looked more like a Russian holdover from over 20 years ago in that war, than he did a modern insurgent!  

Knowing there where blue eyes behind the sunglasses made it difficult to believe Gerry was an "insurgent."

Gerry, the "insurgent" in action.

 

With the exercise completed, I continued to familiarize myself with the site. As we moved about the compound, I got a better understanding of the training conditions.  While it was a far cry from the traditional police academy setting back home, we did have access to one classroom. All other training was conducted outside.   As bad as it appeared, from speaking with colleagues who had been at other training sites, it could have been worse.

Over the next few days, in addition to observing the instructional techniques used in teaching across the culture, I acquainted myself with the different topics that I might be expected to teach.  I reviewed lesson plans in self-defense; conducting searches; baton techniques; handcuffing; first aid; IED and mine awareness; the Afghan Constitution; police station duties; police checkpoints; and many others. 

The current kandak that was scheduled to move out in the coming days would be replaced by another.  Along with the new Afghan group would be a new marine unit.  We’d both be starting a new training cycle.  I was curious to see if any leadership issues would be arriving with the new personnel.

 

Bird's Eye View

Since we had a couple of days before we would return to the training compound, we scheduled a day of shooting at Camp Morehead’s firing range, which is located on the outskirts of Kabul.  Again, I was thankful for the opportunity to see other parts of the region which I hadn’t seen before.  In many ways, the city itself was somewhat similar to parts of some major American cities; however, with an East Asian flair.  As we made our way through the crowded streets, I was surprised to see an electronic billboard.  While it wasn’t to the scale of what would be found in Times Square, (or even on the NJ Turnpike); it was rather dramatic by Afghan standards.  The streets were mobbed with people and traffic, with cars travelling in random traffic patterns.  Traffic cops directed people to go in the opposite direction around traffic circles, and gave hand signals that I didn’t recognize (it’s doubtful that many of the drivers did either). 

Once out of the busier part of town, we had to periodically stop for herds of goats as they traveled to wherever the herder was directing them.  While we were now in the “suburbs” Gerry, the driver, mentioned that it wasn’t odd to see such herds in the city either. 

It was interesting to see the transition from the city, to the suburbs, to the more rural areas.  It wasn’t surprising that as we traveled further out, the people’s level of poverty increased.  While there were those who were less well off in the city, as we got further away from the hub, the poverty was more readily discernible.  As we moved into the rural areas, the people seemed to be living simple lives: small merchants, farmers, goat herders, mechanics – all trying to eke out a living. Occasionally, smiling boys flashed a thumbs up at our trucks as we noisily rambled by; and shared their excitement with their friends when we returned the gesture.  Infrequently, after we showed  a “thumbs up”, a little lad would return our gesture with a punching motion.  When I eventually asked an LA what that signal meant, he smiled, shook his head from side to side, and said, “No, it’s not very good.” He told me it was akin to flashing the middle finger.  I guess not all of the kids in this area like us either…

Arriving at Camp Morehead provided a reminder of some of the beauty that Afghanistan possesses.  We followed a road that cut through the greenery of farmland, and finally arrived at a small village that seemed to cozy up next to the camp.  A short distance from the base gates was a health clinic where locals were gathering.  Both the camp and village were encircled by high mountains whose peaks could be seen in the distance.

Similar to the first range at which we qualified, this one was situated so as to use the mountains as the backstop for the rounds we fired downrange.  However, since we were at a higher elevation, the view was more spectacular.  As the sun rose, its light illuminated peaks which had been hiding in the early pre-dawn hours.  This gave the impression of mountains slowly appearing as if orchestrated by an illusionist.

After having fired our rifles and handguns, Gerry, gazed at a radio towers perched atop one of the peaks within the camp and mused, “I wonder what it looks like from up there?”  Minutes later I found myself in the front passenger seat, rocking and bouncing about the cab, as he searched for a way up the mountain.  When we finally came across a road that appeared to wind its way up the mountain face, we hopped out of the truck, engaged the 4-wheel drive hubs, and up we went.    

"I wonder what it looks like from up there?" - Famous last words...

For much of the ride, we seemed to be going straight up, and always in danger of falling off the side of the narrow dirt road.  “Great!” I thought to myself, “Even if I did survive the tumble down the side of the mountain in the truck, unless we landed upright, I wouldn’t be able to get out because of the 300 lb. doors!”  When we finally made it to the top, I forgot about the perils of the trip.  It was a great view!     

We could see the camp and the village below.  Although the sweltering heat of the summer had made its mark, large patches of green could be seen.  The air was clean and fresh as we had left the smog of the city behind and had climbed about 1,000 feet higher from where we entered the camp. 

From the summit, the camp could be seen with the village nestled alongside it.

Our vantage points showed the more scenic areas through which we traveled. (I think the picture is hazy due to the glare from my head.)

 

At the top, we were met by the guards manning the tower.  Since we didn’t have a translator, we tried as best we could to identify ourselves, and give the reasons for our presence.  Luckily, they understood some English.  Trying to engage them in some conversation, I tried to express my appreciation of the beauty of the view.  In heavily accented Dari, one replied, “It’s good!” but then making a motion with his hand to indicate “over the mountain”, as he shook his head side-to-side, and added, “No good! Taliban!”

One of the guards descends his tower to approach us.

The tower guards. Beyond the mountains behind them: "No good!"

Also at the summit, was another man with (what I refer to as) a full Taliban beard.  He had no weapon, nor was he wearing a uniform.  He was middle-aged, with friendly eyes and a friendly smile showing a discolored tooth.  He was husky, with big forearms, but also carried a bit of a paunch.  He seemed eager to engage in conversation.  However, unlike the tower guards, understood no English.  The best Gerry and I could surmise was that perhaps he was a caretaker of some sort.  As we continued to take in the surroundings from this spectacular viewpoint, I lost sight of the bearded man.  Having, as best we could, vetted the tower guards; I still wasn’t 100% sure what the pot-bellied guy’s purpose was.  He soon reappeared from one of the smaller buildings at the base of the tower.  He walked toward us with his left hand closed, palm up.   By this point I was no longer in “alert mode”, but still wondered what he had in his hand.

As if on cue, from what seemed out of nowhere, a bird appeared and fluttered onto his right forearm.  His grin widened as Gerry and I looked on, obviously surprised at his relationship with his feathered friend.  As he opened his left hand the bird pecked at the treats he offered.

The bird MUST have been waiting for his arrival.

The "birdman" seemed truly happy to be entertaining us.

Once again, I felt a pang of guilt for thinking that perhaps this man with the smiling eyes, who seemed to take such joy at tending to his bird(s) would hold some ill will towards me.  I quickly dismissed the feeling as being necessary to self-preservation, and tried the best I could to compliment him for his ability and patience in caring for his pet.

While I could have spent hours at the peak, it was time to get back to base.  From our perch, high up on the mountain, we could see that the other team members had finished shooting for the day.  After executing many “back and forths” on the narrow path at the base of the tower, with me running to the back and front of the truck, to warn Gerry when the wheels were dangerously close to the edge; we said our goodbye’s to the pinnacle workers, and started back down the mountain.  Going down caused me more angst than going up.  It seemed like we were facing straight down.  Unlike going up, where I saw where we wanted to go; in this direction, my field of view was taken up by where we didn’t want to fall.  While it felt really good to get back on somewhat level terrain, once my heart rate returned to normal, I was wishing that I could go back up one more time!